


Of Opulent Minds and Decaying Souls

by Spnloverja



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Blood and Gore, Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Serial Killer Dean, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-07-26 20:43:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7589377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spnloverja/pseuds/Spnloverja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam always knew that his big brother was a little different from everybody else. But God help him, he loved him anyway. Even if loving him meant turning his back on everything he'd ever thought was good and right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. White Picket Fences Spattered With Red

“I didn’t want to hurt them, I only wanted to kill them” – D. Berkowitz

It was the normalcy that broke Sam’s heart the most. The pale blue sky, wispy white clouds, sun spit heat dampening the small of his back. It wasn’t particularly hot, wasn’t abnormally bright, just typical Kansas weather. A bird flapped its wings from a nearby fence post, an average size pigeon you wouldn’t glance twice at. A beige Toyota Corolla rolled down the street in Sam’s peripherals, a car Sam’s sure he’d seen a million times at a stoplight or in a parking lot. 

Sam scratched at his thigh through the thick denim of his jeans, bitten off nails finding little purpose. He slicked back his hair with his other hand, loose fringe falling straight back into his eyes. He glared heatedly at the bland suburban residence in front of him. The clipped green grass and fresh white paint. He cringed at the white picket fence as he stepped forward and grasped the handle of the gate. It swung forward easily on well-oiled hinges. The walk from the gate to the front porch wasn’t particularly long but it left Sam with damp palms and heaving lungs. It was all so normal, until he opened that front door.

Sam hesitated with his right hand wrapped around the door knob, finger twitching to grab the gun resting in the back of his waistband. He opened the door slowly, eyes sweeping the foyer acutely inch by inch as the door gave way.

The coppery twinge of blood in the air hit him first. The metallic tang hitting the back of his throat making his eyes water and his tongue swell. He slid into the room sealing the door behind him and flipping the deadbolt. He took out his piece but kept the safety on, a comforting weight in his hand. He stifled the urge to cover his nose with his sleeve, letting the scent of death wash over him. He walked deeper into the house, hazel eyes tracing along the manila walls and hitching on each of the framed photographs.

A man and woman standing in front of the house, his arm loosely looped around her waist and a proud puff in his chest.

A young brunette sitting on a porch swing, with an open book splayed in her lap and wide grin splitting her face. She has sparkling blue eyes and Sam wished he hadn’t noticed.

An older woman, hands folded neatly in her lap with a soft smile tugging the corner of her lips.

Sam has no idea who they are. No insight into those moments or their relationships. Frankly, he’s happy not to know, it would make things more difficult.

He continues down the hallway, surpassing the hall closet and stands in the living room’s doorway tracing the mint green walls with his keen eyes. There are more pictures lining the bookshelves on the opposite wall but Sam doesn’t dare look. Doesn’t want the insight. There’s a wool throw slumped in the corner of the couch and a half empty mug sitting on the side table. Sam walks over and ghosts a finger across the ceramic. It’s cool to the touch. Sam turns around and scans the rest of the room, immaculate and nothing out of place. But Sam knew it would be.

He moves on to the kitchen next and finds two small plates and a knife in the sink. There are some crumbs by the toaster and the butter still sits on the island but everything else is tidy. He stalls in front of the fridge. There’s a calendar hanging their under a magnet shaped like a Daisy. The 16th is circled and “My Birthday” is scrawled in purple pen. Sam swallows the lump in his throat.

He doesn’t dare stop once he’s back in the foyer, the temptation to walk back outside would be too great. Instead he walks through the dining room and avoids his reflection in the glass china cabinet. He’d rather not see himself in this house. Rather imagine it’s someone else, that it’s some out of body experience. A virtual tour. He stops at a closed door. It’s the only closed door in the house, so he knows exactly what will await him on the other side. But even the knowledge doesn’t prepare him for the actual image.

There’s blood everywhere. Soaking into the white carpet. Spattered across the walls. Dripping down the blinds. The copper smell is stifling and makes his lungs burn. The brunette from the photos in the hallway is who he sees first. She’s by the foot of the bed. One arm partly hidden under the dark frame and the other limp at her side. Her throat is split open in a second smile and a wreath of red encircles her head. Her hair is sticky with congealing fluid and the only clean part of her face is where the tear tracks are in messy lines down her cheeks. Her eyes are open and milky. Staring blankly up at the popcorn ceiling. Sam used to see an expression there, was disgusted and terrified by the stuck features. Now he just sees dead. She’s lying on her back, pale yellow sweater torn down the center and peeled back to reveal a paisley white bra, both are irreparably stained. Not that she can care now. She has purpling bruises on her visible wrist in the shape of five fingers and skin under her nails. She put up a fight, good for her.

Sam walks further into the room and sees the man next. He’s on his stomach, head awkwardly twisted away from the doorway so Sam can’t see his face but he knows he’s dead. They are always dead. There’s less blood pooling under his head but Sam can see crimson slashes cross his back, splitting the grey polo shirt. Sam can see the black skin encircling his neck from where he stands and would guess that’s what killed him. He’s sprawled beside the bed, hand uselessly pointing towards the landline on the bedside table. Sam doesn’t have to pick up the receiver to know that there will be no dial tone.

He sees him next. Huddled in the corner, head buried in the fold of his arms. There’s a bloody knife discarded beside him but Sam doesn’t fear he’ll grab it again. Everything visible is painted with red. His grey Henley, his jeans, his work boots, and even the tuffs of blond hair peeking out from behind the shield of his forearms.

Sam steps closer, trying and failing to find bare ground to walk over. He crouches down beside the shivering man and places a large palm on his arm. The man stills, entire body coiling under his touch before draining of all tension. Sam slips behind the suddenly boneless figure and wraps his long limbs around the other man’s broad shoulders, tucking his head under his chin. He rocks slowly on his butt while the smaller man molds against his chest.

The gun is still firmly in his right hand, metal pressed in the man’s back but he doesn’t say anything about it. Simply shifts until he’s completely encircled by Sam’s large body. Sam pulls him close and closes his eyes. Buries his nose in the soft tuff of blonde hair and tries to sniff the motor oil and shampoo under all the blood. He shifts his hold so that his right forearm is free and all the man’s weight is against his bicep. Then he presses the muzzle of the gun against the base of the man’s neck. Shiny black metal stark against pale freckled skin. Sam doesn’t open his eyes but he can picture it with blaring clarity. The way the metal imprints against the delicate flesh. He clicks off the safety, sure finger looping around the trigger. He holds his breath. Squeezes his eyes and searches for the smell of shampoo but all he can smell is blood and it clogs his nose. He thinks he’s crying but he’s not exactly sure because his eyes are shut so tightly nothing can escape. The smaller body against him breathes in shakily. Neck pressing back into the gun. The body is warm and familiar and it might be his imagination but Sam swears he gets a waft of motor oil. He clicks on the safety and drops the gun to the stained carpet.

“I did it again Sammy.” A gruff voice whimpers into Sam’s shirtsleeve. Sam trails his now free hand down and runs it across the man’s back slowly. Fingers pressing against the stretched muscles and skirting the rigid bones.

“I know Dean, I know.” Sam let his head fall back against the wall with a thud. He winced and wondered if that part of the wallpaper was clean. “You better now?”

“No.” Dean admits softly, head shifting into the crook of Sam’s elbow and Sam wonders if he feels hot tears soaking the fabric there, “But I’m under control now.”

Sam nods slowly and hopes it lasts. At least longer than last time. Dean begins to squirm like he usually does when he’s beginning to get back to himself. Sam loosens his hold and lets Dean extract himself slowly so he knows it’s his choice. The first couple times he had just let his limbs drop away and Dean had seized up all over again. Nearly sliced off his thumb trying to grab at his knife to go after something, anything, to make the feelings go away. 

Dean worms his way out of Sam’s hold until he’s sitting opposite him, green eyes peering at Sam’s face inquisitively. “You didn’t pull the trigger.”

“Not today.”

“But maybe one day?” The question is asked with no malice, just impassive inquisition and it, makes Sam feel cold all over. Colder than when he stepped into a room painted in gore for the first time. Dean waits patiently for his reply.

“Not today.” The answer seems to satisfy his brother because he nods slowly and finally breaks eye contact to stare at his hands. They are stained with blood, practically coated in the stuff but Dean doesn’t seem concerned. He’s had blood on his hands for a long time.

“Why them Dean?” Sam wonders aloud and the question startles himself more than it does his big brother. He’s not sure why he asked. He learned a long time that the more he knew the more difficult it was to clean up the mess. To put the gun down. To walk through the front door. Dean shrugs nonchalantly. “They were home.”

Sam sighs and swipes a hand at his face, the times when Dean has a reason are easier. At least Sam has tried to convince himself of that. Dean picks at the ring of rust under his finger nails and bites at his bottom lip until the skin it split. Sam watches him solemnly for a moment. His eyes were clear now, not stormy like this morning when he left the motel room. That’s how Sam knew what was coming. What he would find when he caught up with his brother. But now he looks in his eyes and he’s… just Dean. “I am sorry.”

His voice is earnest but he refuses to meet Sam’s gaze, instead locking in on his bent knee. Sam believes him. He knows he’s sorry. For dragging Sam into this mess, for making them haul ass out of another small town, for putting them at risk for a long ass stint in a state penitentiary. But he isn’t sorry for the massacre. For killing two people in cold blood. He can’t be sorrowful about it because he can’t regret it. Sam can’t claim to even remotely know what’s swimming around in his brother’s fucked up noggin, but he does know he can’t stop. Not until he is stopped. “Do you love me Dean?”

“Course I do Sammy.” And Sam wants to believe him. At least for Dean’s sake. “I just gotta clear away the storms sometimes. The storms in my head. They make everything so cloudy, so dark. Feels like… like… remember when we went fishing with Dad and you fell off the dock? The water was so murky even though you were barely a foot under Dad and I couldn’t even see your head. I jumped in, pulled you up onto the dock and you sputtered out so much water. You must have nearly drowned there was so much in your little body. You remember that?”

“Yeah. Tasted like shit too.”

“Well it feels like that, only it’s in my head and not my lungs. I’m all plugged up with murky water and I can’t see or think and I just gotta cough it up. I just gotta Sammy or I’ll drown.”

“You ever think drowning would be better?” Sam goes for nonchalant but his voice wavers. Cracks on the last word.

“Sure. Sometimes I hold off until I see spots but then…”

“Then what Dean?”

“You pull me out of the lake.” Dean looks up at him then, all clear, bright green eyes. Sam feels the sting of tears on the backs of his eyes. He’s not sure if it’s love or guilt. Hasn’t been sure for a while. 

“Go get the bleach from the car.” Dean hops up and treks across the room to the open door, not even pausing at the squelch of blood against the soles of his boots. Sam watched him go and knows that if he picked up his gun and fired it right now he wouldn’t miss. Can practically picture Dean’s brains splattering the wall to mingle with the plasma already there. Almost feels the weight lifting off his shoulders, to never walk into another crime scene laden with guilt and regret. But the hollowness follows quickly. The gaping space left in his heart and in his life if Dean wasn’t there. The hole would likely fill up with something much more heinous. He doesn’t reach for the gun and Dean disappears around the doorframe.


	2. Shark Grins and Childish Fits

Sam’s pretty sure that Dad knew that something wasn’t quite right with Dean. He never said anything, never talked about therapy or specialists but sometimes Sam would catch him watching Dean with this wary look in his eye. Like he was afraid of what lurked under the surface. Like there was a disease crawling under his skin.

When Sam was four he decided it was because Dean didn’t smile much like most kids. And usually when he did it looked forced and painful, like his mouth wasn’t used to it so he stretched his lips too wide and showed too many teeth. It reminded Sam of a shark. Sam tried to help him practice once when he was four and had more holes in his gum than teeth. He sat on his knees on the end of his big brother’s bed clad in his Spiderman flannel pajamas and showed Dean his best grin until his cheeked ached. Then he leaned forward and took his brother’s face between his small palms and moved the corners of his lips with his thumbs until they pulled upward into a ghoulish grin. Dean sat there impassively with his fists loose in his lap and let Sam press and pull his features with a furrowed brow. Eventually Sammy tired of the game and promptly crawled out of the bed to entertain himself with cartoons. But later he caught Dean practicing in the mirror. They at least got a decent school picture from Dean after that year. From then on Dean only really smiled when someone told him to or if Sam smiled.

When Sam was five he decided it was because Dean never cried like other kids. Sometimes Sam would throw a fit just to see if his brother would follow suit. He’d pound his fists on the ground, kick his legs back and forth across the ground, and howl with all his might, the entire time sending his big brother glances to see if he was catching on. But Dean’s face was always the same. Curious, but nothing more. 

When Dean was nine Dad seemed to start to worry about how much time Dean and Sam spent together, especially if he wasn’t around. So he started this new mantra to drill into Dean’s skull.

_Protect Sammy._

_Don’t hurt your little brother boy._

_Keep Sammy safe Dean. ___

Sometimes in the dead of night, the moon was high in the sky and Dad had passed out on the couch Sam could hear Dean mumbling to himself under his comforter from his twin bed across the room. He couldn’t tell if he was asleep or not, but if he focused real hard he could make out the words. Protect Sammy. Don’t hurt Sammy. Never hurt Sammy. A couple times he had tried to stealthily roll out from bed and pad across the floor but before his bare feet even hit the carpet the string of murmurs would cease. 

Sam didn’t remember noting anything particularly odd about his brother until Dean turned eleven. His brother had always been stoic, kept to himself, but he’d never thought much about it till he heard his father bring it up. _You need to get yourself some friends, Deano. That’s what normal kids do. Want everyone to think you’re normal right? ___Dean hadn’t replied, simply let his head fall and pushed his peas around with the prongs of his fork. That night Sam crawled into Dean’s bed and sat cross legged by his hip. “Did Daddy hurt yours feelings? When he said you had no friends?”

No.” 

“It didn’t? I know I would have hurt mines.” 

“That’s because you’re normal.” 

“I think yous normal Deanie.” Dean titled his head to the side and considered Sam for a moment. 

“I’m not.” Sam guesses now that was the only way his brother knew how to warn him. 

As Dean got older Dad drank more and talked less. Once Sam hit puberty and his ankles poked out of all his pants, Dad had mostly stopped talking all together unless it was to bark an order. They would butt heads over everything. Sam full up with teenage angst and his father soured with whiskey. It was mostly stupid spats, a couple of full blown scream fests, but it had never turned violent until Sam turned 17. John found his acceptance letter to Stanford and blew a gasket. _You trying to abandon this family boy? Abandon your brother? Were you even gonna tell us our just disappear into the night?_ The words didn’t hit him till later. After John’s fist. He could tell his dad regretted it immediately. Guilt swelling up at the same rate as Sam’s cheekbone. He tried to trip over an apology but Sam was too angry to listen. So he stumbled back to his room with a half empty bottle of Jack and Sam slammed his bedroom door so hard the picture by his bed fell over. Sam waited an hour before rapping on his father’s closed door softly. He pressed his ear to woodgrain and could hear heavy breathing and shuffling. As soon as the door opened Sam wanted to scream, he’s still not sure why he didn’t. He hadn’t even known Dean was home.  
Yet, there he was standing over their father with a knife loose in his grip. Blood soaked the front of t shirt and jeans. It spattered across his face like additional freckles. His green eyes were nearly luminous they shone so brightly. His breath was coming in quick burst, his shoulders jerking spastically. His cheeks flush with excitement. He stared at Sam expectantly before dropping the blade to the ground. Sam’s eyes trailed down to the bloody heap that was John. His intestines were spilling out into his lax hands, pink and shiny. Sam could see white ribs peeking out from the mangled incision sliced up his belly and into his sternum. Blood and saliva pooled beside his parted lips and flecked his dark beard.  
His eyes were open. Blank and staring straight at the wall. Sam’s eyes snapped back to his big brother, voice trembling, “Dean, what did you do?” 

__“Don’t hurt Sammy. Never hurt Sammy.” Dean replied unwavering, he tilted his head to the side in consideration. “He hurt Sammy, he won’t again.”_ _

__Tears began to spill down Sam’s cheeks and Dean finally stepped forward, nearly tripping over their father’s dead body in his haste to reach Sam. He pulled him to his chest and Sam went willingly, face smashed into sticky fabric with smell the of copper cloying at his nose. He had the perfect view of John’s face from this position. He squinted thoughtfully at the expression, snot beginning to bubble in his nose, his father didn’t look surprised._ _

__“I’m sorry.” Dean murmured into Sam’s hair, stroking the unruly strands into place. Sam didn’t dare ask for what._ _

__Sam threw his acceptance letter away that night along with a pair of rubber gloves and a couple empty bottles of bleach, but he didn’t mind, it had blood stains on it._ _

__Sam didn’t learn till three years and six states later that that wasn’t the first time that Dean had killed somebody. There was a P.E. teacher at Sam’s middle school who had fondled 12 year old boys in the locker room, so Dean had fondled his large intestines while he watched. Dean had been 16 and it was the first time he’d felt alive._ _


	3. Find Yourself Between My Ears

“I wouldn’t stop you.”

“Huh?”

“If you wanted to kill me,” Dean stared out the windscreen, voice flat and factual. It made the hair on the back of Sam’s neck prickle. He never got used to it, the bluntness. Sam glanced sideways at Dean’s profile until the older man locked gazes with him. His features were impassive, but Sam could tell it was a meaningful statement. Was the only one that could tell with Dean. “I wouldn’t stop you.”

“I’d never want to kill you Dean.”

“Yeah, well… If you had to.” He tossed his left shoulder in a nonchalant shrug and turned back to windscreen. The beating of Sam’s heart was so loud he could feel it against his eardrums. He looked back to his brother and wondered if he could hear it too. If he would even understand what it meant.

“I know.”

“I couldn’t stop you.”

“What do you mean couldn’t?”

“I’d never hurt you Sammy. Never you.”

“I know Dean.”

“I know what I am, I know I’m not… right. Not normal.”

“Dean you don’t have to…”

“No, it’s okay. I’ve always known that I wasn’t like everyone else. I know it can’t be easy for you. Just promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“If you ever need to leave, just can’t live this life anymore, kill me first.” If it were anyone else Sam would reach out with nimble fingers, all puppy eyes full of sympathy, but it isn’t anybody else. Any ploy at compassion would be selfishly for his own benefit. All that matters to Dean is what will happen and what won’t happen.

“I promise.” The words sit like a weight on his tongue but deep down he’s sure this life will take his brother out long before he could ever make himself pull the trigger.  
There’s a flash of Dean in his mind, blood dripping through his fingers as he clutches at a gaping hole in his chest. His expression is pinched with pain, but his eyes are clear. The picture makes Sam’s stomach roll and he shakes it from his mind. “We’re over the border, let’s find a motel to crash.”

Dean nods in agreement, conversation stowed away for future reference. His hands are loose around the steering wheel, shoulders relaxed against the seat back. He’s humming softly, a warm noise at the back of his throat and Sam cocks his head to pick up the tune. Hey Jude. A smile lifts the sides of Sam’s mouth at the familiar lullaby, it’s what their mom used to use to sing them to sleep before she left. There Dad never said it, but Sam’s pretty sure she knew what Dean was too. She just handled it a different way. Ignorance is bliss. He could still see her in his mind, flowing blond curls, kind eyes flanked by delicate crows feet, pink lips spread wide in a grin. The night she left, she had tucked them both in bed and sung that same song to them, but her smile was dulled. The sparkle in her eye absent. He couldn’t blame her for trying to get out alive.  
The car swerved unexpectedly, bringing Sam out of his reverie. “Sorry wasn’t paying attention.”

“There’s a turn off in 5 miles, should be some lodging there.” Sam pointed out a rectangular sign before it flew back into their rearview. Dean nodded, pressing the brake to turn off into the slight curve. They pulled into the first decent motel they came across, decent being a loose term. Dean unloaded the bags while Sam picked up a key and paid for a couple days in cash. When Sam came outside Dean already had two duffels crisscrossed on his back and a backpack loose in his grip. “Room 8.”

Dean nodded and headed towards the assigned room. Sam snatched up the last bag in the trunk before locking it up and trailing behind. The sun was already low in the sky, casting shadows across the parking lot and Sam shoved a fist against his mouth to stifle a yawn. He dropped the bag at the foot of the first bed to accompany Dean’s pile, “Food or sleep?”

“Pretty sure I’d end up face first in a plate of fries if I tried going anywhere right now.” Dean chuckled, already unlacing his boots.

Sam shucked off his long sleeve and dropped to a knee to dig around for a t shirt and sweatpants. “Sleep it is.”

By the time Sam had changed clothes and brushed his teeth Dean was already passed out with his face pressed into the pillow. Sam smiled at the serene scene before dropping on his own bed and switching off the lamp. He fell asleep listening to the even breaths coming from the bed next to him.

The sound of ruffling fabric and quiet whimpers woke Sam from his doze. He blinked awake slowly, rubbing at his eyes as he sat up. He looked over to see Dean’s back, ramrod straight and sweat darkening his t shirt. He had the sheets fisted between his fingers, shoulders drawn up towards his ears as he rocked back and forth, muttering unintelligibly. Sam threw back the comforter and eat up the distance between them, kneeling before his brother.  
His face was damp with sweat, eyes shadowed from his bow. “Dean. Dean look at me.”

Dean drew his head back stiffly, eyes darting around anxiously. Sam took his head between his palms and pressed his thumbs into Dean’s cheekbones to assess his eyes. They were stormy and distant. “No no no… This is too soon. It’s never this soon.”

“It’s all falling apart, he has to know, its time for him to know…” Dean continued to mutter under his breath.

“Dean, what are you talking about? Know what?”

“Can’t tell you, gotta see, why can’t you see?”

“See what?” Sam begged, fingers digging into Dean’s face hard enough to leave bruises, “See what Dean?”

Dean stilled suddenly, eyes snapping to meet Sam’s gaze. “It’s all you Sammy.”

He stood up suddenly, pushing past Sam and nearly knocking him off his balance. Dean made it to the door before Sam caught his arm, “Dean please.”

Dean turned around slowly, features terse and body rigid. His lips stretched into a ghoulish grin with too many teeth and dark eyes. “It’s all you.”

Then he was gone.


	4. Patterns of Lies and Mayhem

Sam paced the hotel room for two hours before deciding to hunt his brother down. The town was small and close nit, only lasting a couple blocks before it turned into rolling fields of dust and tumbleweeds. Dean hadn’t been enough in his right mind to take the Impala, so he couldn’t have made it far. Sam stalked into the only bar available and scanned the crowd. It was a lowly bunch, just three or four locals that went there more out of boredom than alcohol. Only one empty beer at the counter and the bartender wiping idly at shot glasses. Sam ducked his head hiding in a fringe of hair before making his way towards the restrooms. He shouldered his way in and was met with his own haggard reflection. Wincing at the dark circles beneath his eyes, almost like fingerprints purpling the tender flesh. He crouched low, checking under the stalls for work boots but he came up empty.

He exited the bar through the heavy back door, checking the alley as he walked back towards the street but only finding a sleeping homeless man curled between two dumpsters and a stack of broken crates. Sam shoved his hands deep in his pockets and kept treading. He peered in through the diner’s window, and ducked his head between every building. Walking up and down the main road until his stomach pinged with hunger and the sun was high in the sky. Sweat pooled on his upper lip with excursion despite the cool temperatures still clinging to the air. He was contemplating checking back atthe motel for the third time when a black and white cop car rolled up beside him at the curb.

Sam held his breath. Inside his lungs seized and his head thumped in tune with his heart. Outwardly there was barely a hitch in his step, nothing a passerby would have even perceived.

“You alright, sir?” A male voice called though the passenger window of the car. Sam stalled his movements, stretching a smile over his lips and keeping his eyes low. He stared at the officer’s hands below the car’s window sill, the right disappearing behind the man’s hip to where his gun was holstered. Sam swallowed hard. Thought for a second what it would be like, one bang and then nothing.

“Yes officer, just overdid it at the bar I guess. But I’m headed home to sleep it off right now sir.” The officer’s hand re positioned into their lap and Sam sighed. Whether it was relief or resignation even he couldn’t tell anymore.

“You do that. Be a little more careful with your liquor son.” The cop was wearing a silver crucifix around his neck. Shining in the midday light against the black uniform top. Sam used to pray every night, sometimes in the morning too, but he stopped when he wasn’t sure what he was asking anymore.

He wanted to ask, ‘what’s it like to believe God is on your side?’

Wanted to wonder, ‘Can a good man do evil things?’

His throat begged to yell, ‘My brother has killed 27 people and I’ve helped him get away with it!’

But he thought of Dean when he had clear eyes and a small smirk, humming Hey Jude in the driver’s seat and instead he said, “I will officer.”

The patrol car continued to roll down the street and Sam rubbed a hand down his face, wondering when he’d finally end up in the back of one of those cars. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been cool under pressure with the police. He could be quite the performer when he wanted to be. Figured it was an adaptive trait he’d picked up over the years.

_Sam was 19 years old the first time he sat in a police interrogation room. He’d waived his right to a lawyer out of a naive hope it would make him appear more innocent, and a bit of teenage bravado. His butt was going numb from having been sitting in the cold metal chair for over three hours, two of those being spent alone staring at his knotted hands in his lap. The detectives that had brought him in had let him wash his hands in the bathroom but there was till flecks of dried blood beneath his nails and on the edge of his shirtsleeves. He could still smell the copper plugging his nostrils. He sniffed, wiping at the scent with his inner elbow._

_“We just need you to answer a couple questions Sam. Just tell us what happened.” Sam looked up from his lap to the two detectives across the table from him. An older gentleman and a woman in her mid-thirties with her hair knotted in a bun. They both looked haggard with lack of sleep. Eyes haunted from the gore they’d just stumbled upon, the massacre Dean had created._

_“I just… I was just coming over to pay the weekly rent for… for the room. I w-walked in and Mr. Jenkins was just…” Sam let his voice waiver, let tears start to well up in his big hazel eyes, but he wasn’t sad for the murdered man. Jenkins had been using his master key to sneak into runaway teen’s rooms at night. His mistake had been trying to unlock Sam’s door when Dean was home. The second smile Dean had cut through his jugular had kept him from making a noise. Sam didn’t even know what had happened until Dean came in three hours later coated in blood and shaking with adrenaline. Sam had corralled him into the shower, and began scrubbing bloody footprints with bleach and an old t shirt in the dawn light. He would have finished cleaning what was left of Jenkins and snuck away with his brother in the passenger seat if the little old lady in room 6 hadn’t seen him walk in the office. Now she screamed. She was also the one who had called 911._

_“It’s okay son, take your time.” The older gentleman cooed, pen poised over his note pad. Sam pinched his leg beneath the table, a tear finally spilling over onto his cheek._

_“I went to give the rent money and he was just… everywhere. There was so much blood and he looked so… so…”_

_“You don’t have to continue, we saw the crime scene. What we need to know is if you saw anyone. Maybe someone leaving the office before you? Someone strange hanging around the motel in the last couple days?”_

_‘You mean someone currently scrubbing Jenkins DNA out of his hair?’ Sam bit his lip, scrunching up his face in a complete showmanship of thought, “Not that I can remember. I mean it’s not exactly the nicest establishment, there are sketchy people all the time.”_

_“What about your family? Think any of them might have seen anything?”_

_“It’s just my brother and me.” Sam swallowed hard, he might be a little actor but Dean had to work hard enough at just not being noticed. “But he wouldn’t have seen anything. He works a lot, too support us.”_

_The interrogation room door shoved open a couple inches and the woman detective held up a finger and gave Sam a gentle smile before walking over to the door. They talked in hushed voices but Sam was sure he heard Dean’s name. It made his skin itch. Made his breath come faster and he had to pretend he was starting to cry again to cover for the panic seizing him. The woman came back over to him and placed a hand on the back of his chair. She had kind eyes and Sam almost hated lying to her. “Your brother is here to get you Sam.”_

_“Am I free to go?” Sam questioned shyly, giving her his best puppy eyes._

_“Of course, just stay close and let us know if you think of anything else you think might be useful.” She smiled with her eyes, crows feet softening her features._

_Sam nodded lowly and followed her out the door and down the maze of hallways to where Dean was positioned in the waiting area. He was seated against the wall on one of the benches, hands braced on his knees with his head hung low. Anyone else would have thought that he looked a nervous wreck, but Sam wasn’t anyone. Dean was never nervous about getting caught. He’d walk down the street with “Murderer” scrawled in sharpie on his forehead if it wasn’t for Sam. Dean didn’t panic. But when Sam got closer and Dean’s head snapped up there was honest concern in his eyes. It took Sam by surprise._

_Dean stood up immediately, stalking closer on bowed legs and taking Sam’s face between his calloused palms. He smelled of hotel soap and shaving cream. “You alright Sammy?”_

_Sam nodded distractedly, letting his lax body be dragged into Dean’s tight embrace. With his face pressed into the crook of Dean’s neck he could feel his pulse racing. “I took care of it, you’re in the clear.”_

_Dean pulled back with a puzzled look, “I don’t care about that Sammy.”_

_“But you seem-“_

_“They had you.” Dean still hadn’t removed his hands from Sam’s shoulders and his fingers dug into the muscle there. “I won’t let them have you.”_

_“They won’t get me Dean.”_

_Sam had always been a good liar._

The patrol car disappeared from view around the corner but Sam continued to stare down the vacant street. With how fast new travels in a small town and the lack of panic currently in the air Sam assumed that no one had stumbled across a crime scene yet. Frustration was building at his temples with not knowing where Dean could have disappeared too. He longed for when there was a pattern, when Dean had been guided by a moral compass. A dinged up and slightly bent compass, but one none the less.

It seemed to have changed about a year and a half ago, his killings becoming more sporadic and without cause. It was after a close call in Milwaukee, a gas station attendant being rough with one of his female customers while the Winchester brothers were filling the Impala's tank. Their names were already in the system in the great state of Wisconsin and they'd been just trying to drive through. But at the act of violence Dean’s hands had begun to shake and he started grabbing at his head. It had all been downhill from there.

There was a homeless man using the gas stations restroom who saw Dean’s particular from of punishment and had called the police. The brothers barely made it to the car by the time blue and red lights were flashing in their rearview. Then there was the hail of bullets once the cops had realized who they were on the trail of.

Maybe that’s what did it, made Dean change his pattern out of protective instinct over his little brother. Sam wasn’t stupid enough to think it had anything to with Dean’s own self-protection. 

_I wouldn’t stop you_

_If you had to kill me ___

_Sam could feel the comfortable weight of the Glock at the small of his back. It felt too warm against his skin. Sam wasn’t sure how much good he was doing his brother anymore; if he was doing any good at all. Maybe the day when he no longer had a choice was coming closer._

__If you had to ____

__Sam felt a buzzing in his jean pocket and jammed his fingers into produce his phone seeing Dean’s name light up the screen. “Dean?”_ _

__“Sammy.”_ _

__But today wasn’t that day. Today he would clean up Dean’s mess and hold his brother against his chest until he was his brother again._ _

__And tomorrow, tomorrow could wait._ _


	5. Hollow Bodies Full of Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this one is a little different, a glimpse into Dean's head. It's a lot of run-ons but it's the type of feel I was going for.
> 
> *Suicidal Ideas / Depression* Please don't read if you believe it will upset or harm you.

It feels empty.

Like all the emotions and convictions in your head have drained out through the bottoms of your feet. Like you’ve been hollowed out by a dull knife, all your insides pulled up through your mouth which is useless for words.

It isn’t sadness, you pray it was sadness, because sadness would fill this gaping void that should be a soul. It’s sobbing into a pillow until it’s soaked through with salty tears and your face sticks to the thin fabric. It’s crumbling to the floor and clutching at your own body parts to try and wrap yourself up in something you can trust won’t hurt you. Sadness is sitting in the front seat of the car with the ignition turned off as you take shaky breaths until you can see enough through your tears to drive.

It isn’t anger, and god how you wish it was anger, because anger would ignite some warmth in the cold that seeped into your bones. It’s slamming your fists into the drywall until your knuckles have busted open and your arms ache up to your shoulders. It’s a ragged scream clawing up from your gut and tearing out your lungs to release this overflowing sensation in your boiling blood. Anger is tossing your phone across the room in a fit of rage just trying to release this pressure in your chest.

It isn’t disgust, how you wish it was disgust, because disgust would give you some connection to the outside world you feel so lost in. It’s crinkling your nose up and screwing your mouth into a grimace at the person across the table. It’s feeling bile in the back of your throat because you feel so sick at having loved someone so cruel and uninhibited. Disgust is finally walking away on shaky legs because despite the pang in your heart you can’t reconcile the person in front of you with the person you loved.

But you do not cry, you do not scream, and you do not walk away.

You are not sad, not angry, and not disgusted.

You are empty. And in this pit of darkness swallowing up you feel as if you are nothing. That your existence makes no consequence to the world because the world has no impact on you, so why should you impact it? You could try and connect but there’s no point. People see through your anemic facade.

When you smile they are afraid because of how it never meets your eyes. They ask if you are okay, they think you’re faking it, and they’re always right. They just can’t comprehend how much you are faking.

How you fake being alive.

Because this hollowness that you exist in is not life; it’s the absence of it. Maybe that’s why you have this connection to death. Something as cold and dead inside as you, and you made it that way. You saw the light flicker out of their eyes and in that second there was color in your cheeks. There was fullness in your chest like being able to take a full breath of oxygen after being under water on the brink of suffocation. This hollow rattle in your bones feels occupied.

Then they are a corpse at your feet and the blood is slick between your fingers, both of you equally vacant. The only difference is you’re a corpse with a pulse. And all you can think about is finding a way to feel that way, feel any way, again.

You aren’t afraid of going to prison, your brain is a prison.

You aren’t afraid of death, everything but your body has been dead since birth.

But then there’s Sam.

You’re only connection to anything good in this life. Touching him is like touching fire it hurts so much. It singes your fingertips and blisters your skin, brings a smile to your lips just to feel something so raw. Talking with him is like being pumped full of air to the brink of popping. It makes your ribs creak and your fingers feel stiff. Nothing in this life has ever, will ever, make you feel so much. Thinking of losing Sam is the only time you have ever been afraid.

It kills you to see the innocence drying up on his face every time he stumbles across another of your crime scenes. You think that you may be hollowing him out. Carving away at the sadness, the anger, the disgust, and leaving behind the cold resignation that’s built up behind his eyes.

That’s as close to remorse as you’ll ever get.

And you’ve thought about leaving. Abandoning the keys of the impala on the side table with your burner phone beside them, and hopping on a bus to some new city far enough away that Sam won’t be able to sniff you out. Just disappear into the sea of blank faces and voices on a busy downtown street. Somewhere where the scum won’t be missed and you can scratch your itch all on your own. You won’t have to fake anything because no one will look close enough. No one will care enough to give you a second glance. 

You’ve thought about leaving on the end of a bullet, maybe at the tip of your blade if you’re trying to be poetic. Actually carve out the insides that don’t belong. You can picture it so clearly that moment when life flickers into the abyss, that moment of clarity, what a beautiful feeling you imagine it to be. You think about it so much that sometimes when you stare at the blood on your hands you imagine it’s your own. You hold your breath till the swaying begins and the vision in your right eye greys around the edges. 

But you promised Sam you wouldn’t leave.

You’d never break a promise to Sam.

Because Sam is scared and Sam is everything to you.

If you knew leaving would save him you’d like to think you would. Walk right out the door into the cold light of day without a second glance. Honestly though, you aren’t quite sure you would and you’re not sure it would save him. 

Sam is a little empty too.

As long as you’re there you can fill that space, that pit, and you can protect him from the darkness inside of you both. Then Sam can feel enough for the both of you.

So you won’t leave.

You’ll protect Sammy from the emptiness, the way no one could protect you. At least as long as that pesky pulse is beating.

**Author's Note:**

> **wrings hands** so I'm not exactly sure what crevice of my mind this came from but I had to wiggle it out. PLEASE give some feedback on if anyone is interested in reading a continuation of this or what you all think.
> 
> Maybe just leave the cliffhanger ending? hmmm there's an idea.
> 
> Oh, and if anyone is in the mood to beta?? Pleas raise your hand because I'd love the help. ((But also message me because I won't see a hand raise.))


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